


Mystery of Pain

by NEPTUNiCM



Series: atonal oeuvres [2]
Category: ATEEZ (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1980s, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Autumn, Bittersweet, Choi San is angry, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Kim Hongjoong-centric, Kissing, M/M, Pain, Punk, Reminiscing, Reunions, Sad, a lot sadder than i intended, because i love autumn, but mostly just filled with regret, but not really, im sorry, this is my baby be kind
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2020-10-11
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:55:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26953966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NEPTUNiCM/pseuds/NEPTUNiCM
Summary: The year is 1989, five years after the summer they met. It’s been so long that they wonder if it was real at all, or a figment their minds conjured to save them from reality. It was a dream of youth, a fool’s paradise of false hope. Cupid’s arrow found its home in their bodies, and they fell, even when they knew they were doomed. There is a sort of sick satisfaction to the inevitability of it all: young, summer love doesn’t last. As they watch shitty rom-coms on a rented VHS player, or walk side-by-side listening to Violent Femmes, they remember the sunshine and magical kisses, but also the misery of being pulled apart. It makes them scared. They don’t want to lose each other again, but what if they’re not meant to be? It’s the beginning of the end, in more ways than one.
Relationships: Choi San/Kim Hongjoong, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Series: atonal oeuvres [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1955683
Kudos: 8





	Mystery of Pain

**Author's Note:**

> Rewatched Stranger Things this summer. It hit me with a wave of new inspiration, I hope you like it!

_“What if you missed your plane?” San says, leaning back against the tree in his garden, their initials fresh in the soft bark._

_“Then, my mom would book another,” Hongjoong replies._

_“What if you missed all the planes, Hongjoong? What if you stayed? Here, with me?” San’s voice shakes as he speaks._

_“San, you know I can’t.”_

_“You could. You could, if you wanted it enough. If you wanted me enough.”_

_“I_ do _want you,” Hongjoong retorts, holding out his hand for San to take._

_San does so, pensively._

_Then, he says: “But it isn’t enough, is it? I’m not enough.”_

━

San _wa_ s enough. But it doesn’t matter anymore. In the grand scale of Hongjoong’s life, that summer is but a wonderful dream he barely remembers.

Any hope of seeing him again is long gone, but Hongjoong can’t help the way his heart beats a little faster when he thinks he catches a dimpled smile from the corner of his eye.

The hollow feeling in his chest never really left. He’s not sure he wants it to.

Because there is something maddeningly beautiful about falling in love in the summer. It’s magical, but only so because it’s short. It flares up bright and quick like a candle, easily snuffed out by autumnal winds.

There is no one to blame but _time._

San walked into his life like the first rays of sunshine at dawn, and left him like the last, lingering beams of sunlight disappearing over the horizon. He cemented himself like a rock that refused to budge, no— like a mountain: Strong, tall, and unmoving.

He gave Hongjoong _everything_ , and Hongjoong found refuge between San’s ribs, made a home in his arms, and a wonderland, together. But no matter how many pieces San carved out of himself to give to Hongjoong, whom he loved, Hongjoong never could have stayed.

It’s the fate of glass to shatter, as it was for Hongjoong to love San. And much like glass, their love fractured, too.

It truly felt great to be loved, Hongjoong thinks, and it was _heavenly_ while it lasted; San’s breath against his own, hands brushing strands of fire from his face, before setting him ablaze in an inferno of emotions with a single kiss.

But naïve teenage dreams of harmony and tranquility are quick to tear. Like opening Pandora’s Box, fears of abandonment and loneliness returned, escaping the fractured shards and unleashing themselves into Hongjoong’s life.

San’s face has long since melted into a disoriented soup of unrecognizable features, swimming around inside his head, never pausing enough to see the whole picture. Save for the poorly taken photograph Hongjoong keeps of him, San is forgotten.

The feelings he associates with him still remain, though, like they’re tattooed into his skin— no, into his very _bones._

What would his life have been like, if he never met him?

Maybe in another life, another place, and another time they stayed together. But it doesn’t help to meddle in hypotheticals. Hongjoong will never see San again, and he’s made peace with it.

But, oh, what he would to see that smile one more time…

━

Hongjoong doesn’t know it yet, but his life is about to change.

Autumn has donned her brightest hues of rusty orange, flaming maroon, and chocolatey tones of brown, dressing herself for the chilly air. She dances through the streets, painting the world in her golden colors.

The last streaks of summer are bleeding away. Blushing scarlet leaves cover the frozen earth like a blanket of warmth, protecting seedlings from the cold winter nights to come.

A fine mist hangs in the air, veiling the world in a mysterious tint. Hongjoong wishes it was thicker, enough to disappear, never to be found again.

It’s the year of 1989, October, and Hongjoong is not a centimeter taller than he was in ‘84. He is, however, older, but probably not wiser, with brand new piercings and black-painted nails.

Caramel petals swirl around his feet as he stomps down the steps from his mother’s townhouse. His freshly dyed shock-blue hair contrasts wildly to the kind, muted tones around him.

His Sony Walkman fits snugly in his coat pocket, playing ‘ _Neat Neat Neat’_ by The Damned so loud it turns heads. Hongjoong doesn’t care.

The outrage in his chest is blistering and _pulsing_ as he crosses the street, entering the nearby park.

Skeleton trees stretch tall into the sky, reaching for the last remnants of fleeting summer warmth. Soft sunrays filter through the spindly branches, creating a patchwork of light on the pathway.

_“It’s time to wake up. Get a real education and settle down. Why won’t you give up on that silly music dream of yours, Hongjoong?”_ His mother’s words echo through his head.

Seventeen-year-old Hongjoong from five years ago would’ve said _fuck you mom, I’m punk rock!_ and flipped her off, then proceeded to run away to become a stripper just to rebel.

But now… Now he wonders, what if she’s right? Wouldn't it be better to give up? Easier? And that is a truly frightening thought.

Hongjoong knows now that the world isn’t all sunshine, freedom, and kissing pretty boys at an abandoned bus-stop in the summer heat. It’s bleak, graying, and having to leave that pretty boy behind for good.

But he isn’t giving up. He’s going to protect that _silly music dream_ with everything he’s got because it’s _all_ he’s got. Why won’t she understand that?

He swallows the frustration, instead focusing on where he’s placing his feet, listening for the audible crunch of brittle leaves beneath his Dr. Martens.

Some people would say the world looks dying in the autumn, but Hongjoong finds it beautiful, and that thought alone, dissipates the resentment he feels for her a bit more.

He collapses on a bench, letting his head fall into his hands. The winding staircase to despair is a short one, especially when it feels like you’re falling the entire way.

Wrenching off the headset, he hears faint birdsong drowned out by the loud thuds of a basketball, and the buoyant shouting of a few boys nearby.

Hongjoong watches them through his fingers, wishing they would respect the fact that he’s approaching yet another artistic breakdown and _be quiet_. How can they be so carefree when he’s barely holding his future together?

A basketball rolls to a stop by his feet, and he looks up to see the boys, wearing matching basketball attires — uniforms? — looking at him expectantly.

With a tired sigh, he picks up the ball. It feels coarse, and well-loved, under his palms.

One of the boys breaks into a jog, meeting him halfway.

Ah, how Hongjoong wishes he hadn’t picked up that basketball.

Too late.

The boy stops in front of him, out of breath, a dopey smile on his face despite the redness on his cheeks, and Hongjoong’s heart _stops_. He recognizes that smile, and _oh my god_ he’s fucked.

Because there, a few feet ahead of him, is San.

It feels like a slap in the face.

They stand close, close enough to touch, yet they don’t. Hongjoong is afraid of what might happen if they do.

Hongjoong prepared a whole speech if they were ever to meet again, but now, when he has the chance to, the words won’t come.

Sweat drips down San’s hairline, and his sleeveless t-shirt clings to his chest.

San has grown taller — taller than Hongjoong — and his shoulders are broader. With a more mature face, his cheekbones are sharp enough to cut out a girl’s heart. Or a boy’s.

His hair is a glorious black, like a raven’s wings. Parted in an odd, yet perfect swoop, and presumably stiff with hairspray, it reminds Hongjoong of a lion’s mane. It fits, Hongjoong thinks, comparing him to a lion— San always was ferocious and strong, not unlike a lion cub.

But San isn’t a cub anymore; He’s fully grown, a true _lion_ , king of the savanna, in every sense of the word.

The San standing in front of him now isn’t the wide-eyed, freckled, lost-looking sixteen-year-old boy from five years ago. This isn’t the boy who was too vast for himself, with his nose, eyes, ears, arms and legs, all a little too big for the rest of his thin frame.

This San is bright, _glowing_ , even.

This San is confident, comfortable, and at ease in his own skin. He’s finally grown into himself, like a previously too large pair of shoes, that now fit perfectly.

But it’s not someone else entirely. No, he still has the same features: the strong eyebrows, the lips perpetually quirked into a small pout, and the dimpled smile that never ceases to make Hongjoong’s heart jump.

San stands there, frozen in time, and Hongjoong takes a chance. Furrowing his brows, he brings his hands to San’s face, cradling it in his cold hands, to check that he’s real. It feels like placating a frightened animal. He can feel San shudder at the touch, but he doesn’t pull away.

“I can’t believe it’s _you_ ,” Hongjoong says.

The world is hazy, but he’s never seen San as clearly as he does now. He’s watching him through a telescope lens. Zoomed in on nothing but _him_ , the rest of the world melts away.

It feels like he’s going to faint.

Hongjoong’s eyes flit across his face, _searching_ , before they meet San’s. His eyes are precious pearls, piercingly brown, flecked with gold, and _hurting_.

Hongjoong doesn’t want to look away.

San stares back, disbelieving. He jerks his body away. The awe on his face is replaced by alarm. He looks scared, borderline terrified.

“Don’t do that,” San says fearfully. Then, taking a step back, “we’re not together anymore.”

It’s the truth, isn’t it? They’re not together anymore, if they even were, to begin with.

The rest of the world comes crashing back to him, and Hongjoong backs away, too, suddenly just as frightened.

One of the boys calls San’s name, and San... San, he walks away.

And he doesn’t look back.

The next few minutes are a blur of technicolored, fragmented memories and hopes whirring inside Hongjoong’s skull. What the _fuck_ just went down?

He feels a hand on his shoulder — Yeosang, their bassist — and he’s almost tackled to the ground with the force of his embrace. Pulling away, Yeosang places an arm around his shoulders, friendly.

“Who is that? Do you know him?” Yeosang asks, curious. He doesn’t remove his arm.

“No,” Hongjoong says. His voice is distant, it doesn’t sound like himself.

They don’t know each other. It’s a fact, no matter how hard it is to say it.

“I used to,” Hongjoong takes a shaky breath. “I used to love him.”

“How poetic.”

Hongjoong isn’t listening.

━

Half a bottle of wine in one hand, a telephone housing in the other, and a bright orange receiver sandwiched between his ear and shoulder, Hongjoong walks in nervous circles around his one-bedroom apartment.

“It was the best fucking sex I’ve ever had, man. That boy was unreal,” Hongjoong sighs dreamily, tilting his head up to stare at his blue-painted ceiling.

Talking about San to his best friend and bandmate — Seonghwa — is freeing. It lifts a weight off of his shoulders that has been there for so long Hongjoong barely remembers what it feels like without it.

_“Not even!”_ Seonghwa exclaims sharply in disbelief.

“Even!”

The telephone is silent, save the unavoidable crackling of static.

Hongjoong sinks down on the floor, crosses his legs, and takes another swig of wine. A bottle of _Chardonnay_ from 1987. Perfectly decent, he thinks. He doesn’t really know anything about wine.

_“And you’re confident that it’s him?”_ Seonghwa queries.

“I’m so sure, never been surer,” he quips back, quick as lightning.

_“Well… Go get him, then!”_

“He doesn’t want anything to do with me.” Hongjoong sounds miserable, which he is for different reasons (read: his mother). Well, _mostly_ because of her. Because of San, too.

Seonghwa’s voice softens at this. _“Did he tell you that?”_

“He basically told me to fuck off!” Hongjoong growls, pulling at the phone-cord, frustrated.

_“So, you’re giving up? After all this time.”_

“No, ‘course not. I never give up,” Hongjoong says, sitting up straight. Then, after a brief pause, “but how will I find him?”

_“I wouldn’t worry about it. Trust me when I say: he’ll find_ you _.”_

With that, Seonghwa hangs up.

━

They meet again not long after. Exactly as Seonghwa predicted, San finds him first.

Hongjoong is on his way from band practice, Seonghwa’s drumsticks in his back pocket, a shabby-looking guitar slung over his left shoulder, and a threadbare hoodie as his only defense against the brisk air.

Hongjoong has thought a lot about San in the past few days. He doesn’t know if he’s ready to know him all over again.

The sky is purple like his pants, casting a pale morning light over the world. Tiny droplets fall from the sky. It looks like it’s raining grape juice.

A hand grabs the hood of his hoodie, and pulls Hongjoong backwards into a nearby alleyway.

Mussed up hair, red cheeks, eyes flaming with something akin to anger, San stands in front of him, blocking his only exit. San is out of breath, like he’s been running.

It would definitely qualify as a cute meeting if they hadn’t already met.

They regard each other in a sort of strange familiarity, too aware of their shared past to pretend not to feel the electric pull between them.

San’s eyes are filled with longing. He looks distressed. Sad, really, like it’s hurting him just to look at Hongjoong. It probably does, it hurts for him, too. Like seeing him again makes him remember the _them_ that they were that summer. Like he’s wishing… For what? Closure? Revenge?

And now, suddenly, Hongjoong too, misses the San that existed in that time. This boy standing in front of him, crisp school uniform in place, seems like a compromise. It doesn’t look like _him_ in the way he remembers, but perhaps this _is_ the real San, and the one Hongjoong knew, is dead.

He hopes not.

“Hi,” Hongjoong offers. “I didn’t think you wanted to see me.” He smiles, hoping it doesn’t look forced.

Oh, how it _hurts_ seeing San close by, but not having him _close_ in the same way as before. He thinks San is kind of perfect, and he tells him so.

San barks out a laugh, though not a happy one. It sounds bitter, almost regretful. Of what, Hongjoong doesn’t know, nor doesn’t dare imagine.

“I’m not yours anymore, Hongjoong.”

“I know,” is all Hongjoong says. He smiles anyway, wistful, and filled with a sorrow he hopes San sees.

_I know_ , he thinks, _but I wish you were_.

It only seems to make San madder: “You can’t just show up here, flash me that _stupidly_ gorgeous smile of yours, and expect everything to be the same!”

“I don’t. I never said—”

“—Because things have changed. _I_ have changed. I waited for you to call me for _weeks_ , pined after you for _months_ , talked about you for _years_ , and when I think I am ready to truly forget you, you show up. You don’t get to do that!” He stomps his foot like a toddler, and Hongjoong can see tears threatening to fall from his wet eyes.

“You’re a _dick,_ Kim Hongjoong!” San cries out loudly.

“I had no choice, San. You know that.”

“Everyone has a choice,” San retorts stubbornly. He pouts, unyielding. It makes him look like a child.

“Oh, shut up! Do you think I wanted to leave? Don’t you know that everything I ever wanted was to stay? With you? You’re not making this fair to me, San.”

Before he knows it, Hongjoong gets himself a mouthful of hair. San wraps his arms around him, and Hongjoong does the same. He buries his face into San’s shoulder, breathing in the familiar scent of his shampoo. Lemon.

They stand there for a long while. Hongjoong feels San grab his hand. Hongjoong doesn’t want to let go, but does eventually pull away.

“I like you, San,” Hongjoong says. “And I’ve missed you.”

“But you don’t even know me,” San says He takes a step forward, chin tilted upwards in spite, hands curled into fists.

“I want to, though. If you’ll let me.”

Just then, San crowds him against the brick wall, caging him in, tangling a hand in Hongjoong’s hair, and placing the other one on his hip. The kiss is red-hot, angry, and desperate. San pins him to the wall, trapping him between his arms.

It doesn’t take long for Hongjoong to lean into him, plunging his hands into San’s hair, pulling him impossibly closer by the loops on his pants, then taking his hand, holding on to him like they’re on a raft at sea.

The feeling he gets when kissing San is… it’s _different_.

Even though it’s messy and uncoordinated, it fills Hongjoong to the brim with sleepy nostalgia, and happiness so intense it almost feels like sadness. There are no fireworks dancing behind his eyelids or sparks dancing across his arms like electricity. There is only San, and that’s enough.

It’s not until he can taste the salt on San’s lips that he pulls away. Hongjoong doesn’t want it to, but in a way, it feels like a goodbye-kiss, just after they said hello.

He looks down to see that San is still clinging onto his hand with a fierce grip, like he never intends to let go again. If Hongjoong cheeks are pink, it’s only because of the weather.

“I can’t believe that you’re real, that you’re here,” San says, voice hoarse.

“I am real. And I’m not going anywhere,” Hongjoong replies, brushing away San’s tears with gentle fingers. His brain feels fizzy, like carbonated soda.

San doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t _need_ to. Hongjoong gets it.

“Would you… Would you like to come with me to my apartment?” Hongjoong offers, dazzling San with his signature smile.

The echoes of their summer love reverberates through Hongjoong’s mind like shots of adrenaline. The infatuation rekindles like paper in a bonfire, thrumming through his body in waves of sentimentality.

San kisses him again, and Hongjoong briefly wonders: Is this what starlight tastes like?

━

_“I think you’re mad cute,” Hongjoong smiles, eyes gleaming like pearls in the sunlight, and hands tucked beneath his head where he lays on the green lawn._

_“You’re cheesy, Hongjoong.”_

_“And I like you more than I originally planned, San.”_

_San grins. “Am I that irresistible?”_

_“You’re too smug for your own good, and oh_ _—! Look!” Hongjoong suddenly bolts upright, leaning over San’s body to stare at something in the grass._

_“What is it?”_

_“It’s a clover,” he says, “but look here—” Hongjoong points to the leaves. “—it has four leaves instead of three.”_

_“And?”_

_“It means good luck.” Hongjoong laughs, happy, and places the clover behind San’s ear. “Maybe it’ll bring us something good.”_

_It didn’t._

━

The past is unchangeable.

They lie in bed, side by side. Sunshine filters in through the checkered curtains, covering the room in broken beams of light.

It’s peculiar, the whole ordeal, and they look at each other. They just look.

“I honestly can’t remember half the things about us,” Hongjoong says, hands tracing patterns on San’s exposed chest. “But it was nice,” he adds hastily, when he sees the way San’s expression wavers.

“Do you regret it?” San asks.

“Regret what?”

“Everything. I don’t know.”

“No. Do you still remember the way I made you smile?”

“Yeah. I don’t think I’ve ever smiled as much as I did that summer.”

San described himself like the ocean once, all push and pull, flexible, and never committing to anything but existence itself. 

Hongjoong is afraid that San will slip through his fingers like wet sand, so he holds on, as tight as he can, and hopes that it’s enough.

_God_ , he really hopes it is.

“I-I… I don’t know what to say to you, Hongjoong,” San says, sitting up in bed, gathering the white sheets around himself and turning away.

Hongjoong moves to sit beside him. He tucks a stray piece of hair behind San’s ear and kisses the side of his head before gently cradling his jaw and forcing their eyes to meet.

“Tell me how you’ve been,” he says, “tell me about your life, tell me where you’ve been and what you’ve seen, tell me about Choi San, the boys with pink cheeks and starry eyes. Tell me about _you_. Maybe you’ll fall in love with me all over again. Maybe you won’t. But at least let me try to get to know you.”

“I wouldn’t know where to start.”

“At the beginning,” Hongjoong replies.

It’s quiet, save the faint humming of the fridge and their mingling breaths.

They’re walking on ice, and the fragile walls of trust they’ve built around each other might break at any moment. Murphy’s law states that if something _can_ go wrong, it _will_ go wrong. 

Nothing lasts forever.

They’re teetering at the edge of a cliff, a glass filled with orange juice waiting to spill over, a baby bird dangerously close to falling out of its nest, a dam about to break. Naked, raw, pure— there’s nowhere to hide.

“I wish we ran away, like you said we could,” San confesses, breaking the silence.

“Me too.”

“Can we be okay, after all of this?”

Hongjoong has no idea. “I don’t know. Love is eternal — the aspect may change, but not the essence.”

“Who said that?”

“Vincent van Gogh.”

“Didn’t he kill himself?”

“Yeah.”

San pushes himself to his feet. Stretching his arms over his head, his muscles ripple like waves under his skin. Hongjoong thinks he looks like a Greek statue come to life.

“You can’t just kiss me and make everything alright, you know. _Nothing_ is alright anymore.” San’s voice is so quiet Hongjoong barely catches the words. 

He turns back towards Hongjoong with guilt in his eyes, but mostly fear.

San is distraught, and Hongjoong is lost. He’s so fucking lost. San is the best and the worst thing to ever happen to him.

“I’m so fucking sorry, San. I hope you know that. I let us both fall too quickly. I let myself grow attached to something I knew was going to end. It wasn’t fair.”

San stays quiet.

Hongjoong gets to his feet and continues talking, “I would bring you pearls from the deepest parts of the ocean if that was what it took. I would steal the skies for you if you told me to, I would bleed out on your ugly yellow carpet if you told me your favorite color was red.”

They stand face to face, naked in both soul and body, full of heartache and poetry and strife.

“You know, San, things rarely stay the same, no matter how much we want them to— _especially_ when we want them to.”

And then San says, “I’m scared.”

“Of what?” Hongjoong almost didn’t believe that people like San could be afraid.

“Of us,” he replies. “Of change. Of hurting.”

“Me too.”

“I don’t want to fall in love all over again just for you to leave and break my heart. I can’t do that, Hongjoong. I can’t.”

“It won’t be like that this time,” Hongjoong says quickly, and he means it. “I won’t leave you, trust me.”

“You didn’t promise,” San’s voice is tight.

“No, I didn’t,” Hongjoong whispers. How can he make promises when the only predictable part of life is how unpredictable it is?

━

“I think I’d be sick without you,” San murmurs into Hongjoong’s shoulder.

“You’d heal, like you did last time.”

San looks so much like he belongs here, with him, that Hongjoong wants to punch something. 

Their reunion opened a floodgate, letting out every suppressed memory flow back into his body. It’s harrowing and utterly beautiful at the same time.

They’re in San’s apartment this time, his roommates either gone to class, or scrammed as soon as they saw their entwined hands at the door.

And there, under the fluorescent bathroom lights, San kisses him again.

They stand under the showerhead together. San tucks his head onto Hongjoong’s shoulder and sneaks his arms around his waist, rubbing circles on his stomach.

“I dreamed that you loved me last night,” Hongjoong confesses.

San doesn’t need to answer, but he does anyway. “I do, though. Love you, that is. And I don’t think I ever stopped.”

A forest grows back healthier, more fertile, after it’s burned. Maybe the same goes for relationships. Perhaps they are stronger after being broken apart. Maybe it was a good thing that Hongjoong lit the match and watched it burn.

“How do I know _you’ll_ stick around?”

“Trust me, I’ll stick. I’m very sticky.”

Hongjoong laughs and turns around in San’s grasp.

“Bitten by the love bug?”

“I most definitely am,” San retorts with a grin.

They exit the shower, playfully flicking water at each other while trying not to slip on the pink tiles.

With water droplets rolling down his necks, a flush on his cheeks from the hot water, and one of San’s t-shirts clinging to his frame, Hongjoong stares at San drying his hair.

San is slowly filling the blank spaces of Hongjoong’s heart, like watercolors, seeping into every pore in his body, covering him like a finally complete canvas.

Because San has fixed his broken wings, painted them in prismatic colors and learned to fly on his own again. He looks so _happy_ that Hongjoong almost thinks it would be better to just let him go. 

But Hongjoong wants him so bad he could _die_. 

Walking into San’s bedroom, the paint flaking and walls filled with posters and pictures, and the floor littered with empty beer bottles and forgotten underwear, he spots a tiny strip of yellow in one of the book-cases. 

“You kept them,” Hongjoong says in awe, pulling the old vinyl from the wall. It’s traffic-light yellow, with black block letters and a faded neon-pink strip covering the band name: Sex Pistols.

“Oh yeah. I guess I did,” San answers nonchalantly as he exits the bathroom, raven locks dipping into his face. 

“Why?”

“Well, they reminded me of you.”

And Hongjoong giggles, like, actual, legit _giggles;_ a high-pitched squeaky sound that makes San’s eyes go wide.

“I missed your laugh,” San says, kneeling beside him on the floor with a stupid grin.

“I missed yours too, but San… Do I— Do I love you…? Or do I love the memories of you? I can’t tell the difference, but I don’t think I care.”

“As long as you’re here to hold me, I don’t think I care either.”

The whole thing sort of makes Hongjoong wants to cry.

━

The streetlights that shine over the icy sidewalk makes their elongated shadows dance around like performers in a circus, leaping gracefully from windowsill to windowsill, from where they sit inside.

Hongjoong has never seen San cold before. But now, surrounded by ugly luminescent lighting, frost hanging on his eyelashes and a rosy coloring to the apples of his cheeks, Hongjoong finds him even more handsome than ever before.

San catches him staring, and sends him a good-hearted smile. It feels like falling in love all over again.

They’re talking— just talking and drinking red and blue slushies at a 7-Eleven in the middle of the night. And yet it feels like there is an unspoken _understanding_ between them, like they’re connected, somehow.

The air is crisp, and it smells like sugar and deep-fry. They’re voluntarily stuck in a liminal space where time doesn’t exist.

The cosmos opens up around them like an awe-inspiring flower bearing forth the secrets of the universe, and San looks as soft as a poem in the light. 

“My parents divorced when I was really young, but from the way my mom talks about him, I know they must have loved each other at some point,” Hongjoong says quietly, scooting closer to him on the ugly neon-green sofa.

“You’re a child of love,” San muses, eyes unfocused, like he’s staring at something that’s really far away. “It’s right, I think, that you were made with love.”

Hongjoong hums in faint agreement. “And yours?”

“I don’t think my parents ever loved each other.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, I think they married because it was convenient. Now they won’t stop asking when I’m going to bring a girl home, because there must be someone, right?”

San laughs bitterly before continuing, “I don’t think they really understand me. But I don’t think they try to either. It doesn’t matter to them what I do, they’ve already decided who I am.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” Hongjoong asks, leaning his head on San’s shoulder.

“No. No, not really. ”

“Okay.”

“Can I hold your hand? I just need— Please.” San tumbles out the words in a flurry, staring at him with an expression so open and _raw_ , that Hongjoong doesn’t even need him to explain anything.

San isn’t bulletproof, even if Hongjoong knows he often likes to believe he is. San really needs to be held right now, and so Hongjoong does.

Hongjoong holds him for a long time. It’s just them and the red and blue slushies against the world.

“Do you, uhm, eh- maybe want to—? Maybe want to make, uhm…” San trails off, looking more embarrassed than Hongjoong has ever seen him before.

“Purple?” Hongjoong finishes gently.

“Yeah, purple.” The pretty blush sits high on his cheekbones.

So naturally, Hongjoong kisses him. It’s chaste, gentle and everything they both need in that moment. He feels rampantly alive, the blood warring in his veins, roaring in his ears; rushing and thrumming in a wild melody.

It’s tender — loving — yet filled with passion. 

Because if being in love during the summer months is short, sweet, and merciless, then being in love in the autumn is deliciously reckless, relentless, and _powerful_. 

The summer they shared seems so far away — like a lifetime ago — but some things never change.

Everything has an end, even the happiest of stories, and Hongjoong finds himself desperately wishing that this one will have a happy ending too. 

In Greek, _‘nostalgia’_ means _‘the pain from an old wound’_ , but it also means _‘homecoming’_. And now, as Hongjoong holds San’s hand in the back of a dingy 7-Eleven at an ungodly hour, kissing the living daylights out of him, he finally feels like he’s home.

━

Fate makes introductions to lovers who are destined to be, yet never helps them along. Introductions can take time. They can be stretched over weeks, months, and even years. But the pain of separation only helps them be surer, that what they have is _real_.

True lovers don’t travel the easy road, because love isn’t easy. Love is _fucking hard_ , and it’s supposed to be. Without the downfalls and ruin, how can they truly know if it is love, and not simple infatuation?

And so, after the pain of the first separation, they can come together, and know, deep in their hearts, that what they have is _love_ , and that they truly are meant for each other, and no one else.

Now, as the end is coming nearer, and as they sit side-by-side in the bedroom of a run-down city apartment, filling each other with love like nectar so sweet even the gods would burn, remembering the pleasures and their pains, that San, with five simple words, makes it all fall apart.

“I received an acceptance letter… From— uh Cambridge.”

That’s half a world away, Hongjoong thinks. 

“Oh. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I— Well, I… I don’t know. I didn’t think I’d get in. But, it's only for a year! I wouldn’t be gone long.” San chews on his lip.

An infinity of silence stretches out between them. 

“Just say you want me to stay, Hongjoong, and I will. You know I will.”

“San I—”

Hongjoong finally understands why storms are named after people. Because San is a thunderstorm, destroying Hongjoong in the most beautiful ways imaginable and leaving him gasping for breath and shivering from ephemeral touches.

San is a hurricane.

“I think…” 

What _does_ Hongjoong think?

He thinks constellations are named after either heroes or griefs. Hongjoong thinks he wants to rename every single one of them after San, because he is both. He’s the greatest feat the world has produced, the universe’s very own _piece de resistance_.

“Say you want me to stay, Hongjoong. I will,” San repeats. “For you.”

San is bronze-tipped and earth-changing, a haze of chaotic comic books and scratched up self-made LP records. And those eyes have teeth that cut through Hongjoong’s heart every time he looks at him.

San is… San is indescribable in the best ways possible.

“It’s okay.”

“It’s okay,” he repeats when San doesn’t answer, eyes wet and hands shaking ever so slightly.

“Follow your dreams, San, you deserve to be happy. And even if you’re not meant to stay here, I’m glad the universe led you to me, if only for a little while.”

“I love you, you know.”

“I know. I love you, too.”

Hongjoong clutches San’s hand and turns his face towards the window, praying to every deity out there that San doesn’t catch the tear silently slipping down his cheek.

“But… but I—” and it crushes his heart to say it, “but I think you should go. I’ll still be here when you come back.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

If he does leave, there is no guarantee he will ever come back. He might fall in love with England. He might fall in love with another boy. 

It’s ironic, really, and Hongjoong finds himself laughing. 

━

_“Is he leaving?”_ Seonghwa’s voice asks over the phone. _“Like, actually going? I thought maybe it was a joke.”_

“I don’t know yet. He hasn’t said. Or decided, I guess.” 

_“Oh. Well, how do you feel? Are you okay? If Yeosang ever pulled that shit on me I swear to God I would—”_

“I’m fine,” Hongjoong cuts him off, looking at San. “I’m happy for him, truly. It’ll work out in the end, it always does.”

He looks at a sleeping San, tangled in Hongjoong’s bedsheets, a calm, content smile on his lips. His arms reach for Hongjoong, a furrow on his brow when he doesn’t find him, and a relieved sigh when he cracks open his eyes to see him standing just a couple of feet away.

Hongjoong is so in love with him he wants to scream it from the apartment complex, write sappy poems about it, and carve it in a tree— he wants the world to know that _this boy is his_. 

Even if San leaves and doesn’t return — because San might change in that single year away from Hongjoong — he knows for sure, at least, that he will never be able to forget those eyes filled with stardust, that skin made of velvet, and that heart so good and pure it could melt diamonds.

San will haunt him forever, but old wounds, no matter how painful, always heal. 


End file.
